


The Land of Opportunities

by orphan_account



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Daddy Issues, Edgar J Hoover, Historical Accuracy, M/M, Punk!England
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-13
Updated: 2013-02-16
Packaged: 2017-11-29 03:34:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/682268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alfred F Jones knows that he isn't taken too seriously by his fellow nations. Even being a superpower it's hardly a world-wide secret that he's seen as cheap and disposable. He doesn't have his own culture or he's just parading around and taking from others without providing anything useful on the playing field. </p><p>But that's his role isn't it? He was built on the dream of unity, of peace and understanding, of freedom to give and take as much as one pleased and to live harmoniously with your neighbors. And sometimes that dream feels a little stale and Alfred feels just a little bit numb and he doesn't want to think about the things that plague his mind relentlessly.</p><p>Because he's the Land of Opportunities and that's the role he plays, whether the world takes it seriously or not.</p><p>(Series of One Shots)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Speaking Easy

**Author's Note:**

> This entire story was actually started by a conversation I had with my girlfriend, concerning Chef Boyardee and Spaghetti-O's. So I spent an entire four pages of text building up to that one snippet in the taxi. 
> 
> There really isn't any falling in love and settling down. If you're looking for a fluffy, happy story then what are you doing on this page? I will also be delving into heavy character development and what you might see is something that most people would deny vehemently (such as Feliciano being manipulative). 
> 
> On the other end of the spectrum being you love this fic and you want more of it, I'm sorry to say that updates will be few and far between. It is essentially a series of oneshots that I write as I get the inspiration. It won't be updated in any sort of timely manner so do not beg and harass and passive-aggressively suggest for me to update it. It will be updated in it's own time and that's that.

_The Flapper Walk_ played out through the hall, the band blasting the popular song with the fervor that hundreds of bands all across the US would claim was unbeaten. It wasn’t unusual for Alfred to wander into a scene like this with all the ease that the owner of the infamous Cotton Club might, grinning and giving pretty girls winks and handsome men pats on the shoulder.

The year was 1926, what would later be called the Roaring Twenties in full swing as Owney Madden greeted the blonde man with all the ease that he might greet his brother with.

“Your friend is here tonight.” The man had stated with his thick New Yorker accent, his eyebrows raising as he peered around a corner at the friend in question. “Sweet little piece of Italian ass like that? Be careful, you might lose her.”

Alfred didn’t question that as he was led back into the speakeasy’s back bar, greeted by a few waves and nods, a few drinks raised in his direction, before he caught sight of the looker at the bar.

Whenever Feliciano Vargas, or his twin, or both, went out in the streets of New York City there was two things garunteed.

 _One:_ They would turn heads.

 _Two:_ They would be dressed in the highest American or Italian fashion, depending on their mood.

But whether they’d be dressed in the height of male or female couture was debatable.

At the moment Feli had obviously found a rather stunning green and black flapper dress, the thick bands of fabric falling down past his exposed thighs and brushing his knees he sat, smoking a cigarette and sipping at some of the best moonshine available. Alfred’s eyes flicked down to the strips of fabric that slipped between the thin thighs instead of over them before he directed his gaze back up. _(Nearly twenty years later on Cyd Cherise would wear the best reincarnation of that dress in Singing In The Rain, Alfred demanding that the dress make an appearance somehow.)_

He knew that Feli knew that it was easier for this when he wore a dress, when he made himself feminine and delicate and vulnerable. It was so easy for Alfred to believe that he was out with a woman when Feli dressed like that, and the flapper style highlighted a boyish form as the _“in”_ thing was a direct reflection of that small desire that Alfred couldn’t fulfill with a real woman.

When those big brown eyes turned to him, Alfred could see that Feli had even put on some lipstick, to compliment the pretty pout he threw the other male. The blond sat down at the bar, turning his torso to face the small Italian as his elbow rested on the bar and a glass of scotch was slipped between his fingers.

“ _Alfie_.” Feliciano whined out softly, careful not to give away his voice as the blonde sat beside him. “Your alcohol is shit.”

“Well, I’m sorry Romano, I’ll let you wallow in it while I find your twin.” Alfred grinned and Feli smacked him on the thigh, the sting enough to make the other nation flinch slightly.

“It’s true. Why don’t you keep wine in here?”

“You’re Catholic, go to church and take a good draft.” Alfred teased and Feli gave another whine as he took a sip of moonshine.

“Even your church wine is fake piss.”

“Hey, why so much bite?” Alfred asked as he took a drink of his own scotch. “Ludwig not mounting you properly.”

Feli glared at Alfred but it was obvious that a cord had been struck. “That damn Hitler is making sure to keep a close eye on him. He hardly talks to me anymore outside of training and politics.”

Alfred raised an eyebrow, his glass pressed to his lips as he peered at the brunette. “You sure he’d like you being in the US?”

Those big brown eyes turned to him and Alfred remembered quite clearly just why the Italian was always so underestimated. Because who could make such an innocent face and say some of the greatest absolute _filth_ that could come out of those painted lips?

“Why, _Alfie_ , are you going to take advantage of me? It’s just a few drinks between friends.” Alfred swallowed but didn’t protest because those lips were quirked in a smirk and those eyes had become knowingly lidded because the older nation _knew_ what the younger was thinking.

And who _wouldn’t_ be thinking of the same thing when he was dressed up like that.

“I need another drink.” Alfred groaned, calling the bartender over and having both of their glasses topped off.

As he watched Feli down his drinks, the brunette holding his liquor as well as any seasoned drinker _(he had centuries of practice, after all)_ , Alfred couldn’t help but think that Feli belonged in New York. The height of fashion, swarming with immigrants and the Mafia from his home, delicate and bird-boned with a smile that could light up the Chrysler building. Whereas Alfred always met Francis in New Orleans _(his “barbaric” Cajun accent turning the word into N’awlins)_ , took Yao into the streets of San Francisco _(where he would revel in the Chinatown he had built that had the blonde craving him endlessly)_ , or Carlos in Florida _(both of them sucking sugar canes in as suggestive of a manner as they could)_ , he always saved New York City for Feli and his twin.

Because whether he said so or not, this city was his gift to the twins, and while Lovi had only briefly indulged in the city and all it had to offer, popping in every so often, Feli was the one who put the city on a ring and could walk the streets like he owned the place, could trace his fingers over the lobe of Alfred’s ear and feel the entire city alight with the excitement that the nation himself felt at the touch.

In a few hours they had drained the entire speakeasy of the Cotton Club and were out on the streets, Feli dragging Alfred into a cab and giggling as he ordered the driver to the Ritz, Alfred tucking his face against the thin neck and feeling the laughter of the brunette as he slurred through half-assed Italian in an attempt to seduce the pretty brunette.

“Oh, but, but, Alfred, your _food_.” The slim figure laughed as he flushed and tucked his chin, his gloved hands on broad shoulders, feeling the flex of muscle beneath the suit he wore. “Your Italian food is atrocious.” And his voice was almost drowned out by Louis Armstrong blaring _West End Blues_ over the radio of the car but Alfred was close enough to hear.

“I think it tastes fine, besides, if I wanted real Italian I’d just dive down right _here_.” His hand slid between slim thighs and the delighted squeal that escaped the smaller male ended in another round of laughter from both of them as the car started to pull up to the hotel. “Besides, Americans are a fast moving people. They don’t have time to make things like you do.” It was bad form to rut against your host in the middle of a hotel lobby but the way that Feli walked with a swing to his hips and the click of his heels on the floor made the option very tempting.

“Then your people should slow down.”

They entered the elevator and the operator didn’t so much as blink as Feli managed out his floor number, even with Alfred’s mouth moving over his throat. “Maybe I should come up with a canned Italian dinner… Like… Spaghetti and meatballs in a can, and that way my people can enjoy good Italian whenever they want.”

They stepped onto the hallway’s plush carpet and Feli grabbed Alfred by the necktie, dragging him into his room and towards the bed, dragging his jacket off of broad shoulders and tugging the warm, still-talking mouth down to his own.

“Or maybe a box with some sort of instant sauce in a can?” Alfred mused against full lips, grunting as slim hands worked at his belt and the zipper of his slacks. “Or some sort of alfredo?”

“You just like that because it sounds like your name.” Feli whined as he arched upwards. “And you can’t put spaghetti in a _can_ , that would be disgusting.”

Alfred gave up on trying to fumble the dress off _(damnit, he could have worn a suit, but if he had then this would have gone differently, more fighting, more posing, more dominating)_ and he just flipped the skirt up and slid off the knickers and garter belt, silk stockings sagging slightly about thin knees as Feli fell back on the bed, pulling the larger male with him _(nearly strangled with his tie)_ , until he could lay back on the downy soft comforter and mattress, wrapping those thin legs about Alfred’s waist and flipping their positions, his hands pinning Alfred to the bed with less force than that cat-like grin that he gave.

Alfred thought that perhaps he could ask Feli to pose for a photograph sometime, just like this, with his hair mussed and that single curl bobbing tantalizingly, his flapper dress with it’s splayed fringe framing tanned thighs perfectly and the shoulder strap of the dress sliding off his shoulder and coiling around his biceps.

Then again, Ludwig might kill him for that.

And then Feli started to grind down against him, all unbearable heat and precum and wanton recklessness and Alfred decided to stop thinking as he grabbed those perfect hips, dragging Feli down and earning as gasping cry at the penetration, thick eyelashes fluttering closed as Feli arched his back and tilted his head back, rocking his hips despite the pain, trying to adjust faster.

“When was the last time he fucked you?” Alfred groaned, earning a whine. “A decade? Or _two_?” The tight heat certainly felt like at least a decade.

“A decade sounds right.” Feli whined, rocking his hips before lifting up and then down again. “Are we going to talk about Ludwig all night or are you going to _fuck me_?”

The dresses, the women’s clothes, those were meant to make Feli more vulnerable, more delicate and feminine. And while he could fool anyone on the street into thinking that he was simply a nice decoration for Alfred’s arm, it was obvious in this room that the American was submitted to only the whims of the little Italian perched on his hips.

Alfred groaned and thrust up into the smaller male, earning a cry and a shudder of relief as he moved and Feli was able to grind down into the motion. Alfred could hear Bessie Smith singing about _Careless Love Blues_ in the other room, muffled but distinct and their bodies moved in slow time with the music, the tempo no less desperate but infinitely more wonderful with the slick slide of flesh and the stick of sweat on skin as Feli straddled the blonde, eyes closed and head tilted back, letting Alfred grope over his body freely, dragging nails over fabric and skin as they moved.

Despite what everyone said, he wasn’t an idiot. Alfred knew what Feli was imagining behind those delicate eyelids. He just didn’t care. The same way he didn’t care when Francis buried his head between his thighs and he knew that the Frenchman was thinking about Arthur. He knew full well that Yao was riding him with the fervor that he would deliver to Ivan. The same way he knew that when Carlos bent him over a table in his beach house that the Cuban was thinking of his twin as he did so.

He knew that Feli wasn’t thinking about him, but he didn’t give a damn as he indulged in the little Italian like he would a fine sweet.

And when it was all over and Feli was laying sprawled on the bed, panting and trying to peel himself out of his dress, Alfred couldn’t help but be thankful that he at least had these moments with the brunette, for as long as he had left.

And in 1926, at the top of the Ritz in New York City, after drinking at the Cotton Club and talking about canned spaghetti and wearing themselves out until their legs gave beneath them, Alfred and Feli curled up, content in their arrangement and the way that the city that never slept would always be their little secret.


	2. Hero Complex

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> During WWII Italy defected from the Axis Powers, in retaliation for the betrayal, Germany attacked the great cities of Italy, destroying their historical monuments. England, to protect their new allies, sent the Canadian forces with their tanks to stop the Germans and liberate Italy. But instead of sending in the Canadians to receive the hero's treatment, American forces were sent to be celebrated by the Italians, who hadn't known who was saving them.

He wasn’t supposed to be there.

But he hadn’t tried to avoid the trip, hadn’t tried to give Matthew his due credit for the Canadian tanks going into Italy to stop Germany’s troops from destroying many of the valued historical cities of the country. But England had sent him instead, and upon entering Venice as per agreement between the Italians and England, he had been greeted by the twins.

Feliciano was bright and smiling, his twin, Lovino, more dour in his regard of the American as Feliciano greeted him and laughed. “ _Americano, Ciao_!” The small brunette had to stand on his tip toes, and even then Alfred had to bend for the smaller male to kiss him on each cheek. “Thank you, _grazie_.” The older male laughed as he pulled back, chattering to his brother, both of them speaking in rapid Italian that even America, with his skills with languages, had a hard time keeping up. It was the first time that Alfred had seen the twins in their natural home and he couldn’t help but think that even in their military uniforms they were just as colorful and cheerful and amazingly attractive because their tanned features compared to all others were just above and beyond the rest.

Eventually Lovino huffed and made a rude gesture, walking away while Feli laughed and turned to Alfred. “Well, are we on our own now?” The American couldn’t help but smile, though at the predatory smirk that the seemingly innocent face shouldn’t have been able to make Alfred had to pause at that.

“ _Si_.”

In a few minutes they were in a hotel and Feli was swaying his hips to a sultry violin playing through a gramophone, his jacket off and pants as well, left in his dress shirt, the front sliding against his bronzed thighs, Alfred watching with a glass of fine wine in his hand as the brunette moved about the room, ordering room service with a fine meal and more wine. As he hung up he turned and smirked at the American sprawled over the chaise lounge, crawling to straddle the cradle of broad hips and grin down at the blonde.

“Feli? Feliciano, what are you-”

“You get the hero’s treatment.” Feli giggled softly, rocking his hips forward as he placed delicate hands on broad shoulders. Dragging his fingers over the fabric of uniform and jacket, the slim Italian shoved the fabric of the heavy bomber jacket off of thick shoulders.

“But I’m not-”

“Not what?” The brunette interrupted, lips hovering over Alfred’s, barely brushing in a tantalizing manner as he spoke, his breath hot and tinted with the wine, but Alfred knew that he wasn’t drunk. They were nations, of course they didn’t get drunk after one glass of wine so that wasn’t an excuse. “Don’t turn away my generosity… My boss might feel very upset over finding out that I didn’t give you every luxury that a hero _deserves_.” Feli whispered as he ground forward against the hot length that was confined to the rough fabric of uniform pants.

Alfred gasped and groaned as the weight of the slimmer male settled on his hips, one of the older nation in the world grinding down against him like a whore that was worried she might not get paid. But his thighs were thin, the insides of which were starting to get red from the way they rubbed against the outer seams of Alfred’s pants, his fingers tugging at the tucked in shirt, the uniform jacket, the bomber jacket, trying to get the younger male undressed. “I’m not here on vacat…” Alfred groaned when that hand grasped between his thighs, the dragged over his length, which was so hard it ached, the slender, tanned digits massaging over the flesh as he lifted his own hips in order to more easily remove the blonde’s pants. _“Christ_ , Feliciano…” Alfred lfited his hips to help the process along despite how much he would deny it later. “What are you-”

Feli jammed fingers into Alfred’s mouth dragging his own tongue over full lips as he watched Alfred suck and bob his head, white teeth nibbling at his own lower lip as Alfred sucked and twirled his thumb, watching as Feli pulled away and knelt on the carpet, tucking his head between strong thighs as he pulled open Alfred’s pants and began to suck and bob his head against the length, brown eyes turned up to watch Alfred as the blonde whined and grasped hold of the soft hair, tangling his fingers and moaning as Feli gave a particularly long lick to his length.

He moaned even more loudly when he noticed where Feli’s free hand was, three of his fingers wedged into his entrance, his eyes half-lidded as he moaned and thrust back onto the digits. When those full lips pulled back, a thin string of saliva keeping the darkened lips connected to the flushed head, Alfred let out a harsh breath, thrusting upwards unconsciously as the brunette stood and extracted his fingers, grasping the arm of the couch and Alfred’s length before he straddled the blonde.

A few misses and whines from Feli and Alfred reached back, guiding himself into the welcoming heat of the brunette that matched the sort of heat that his country gave off. And oh, every reservation was pushed aside as Alfred thrust into that tight heat, wondering vaguely if Feli ever thought of him when he was with Ludwig, or if the brunette’s sole devotion was only to the damn _Nazi_.

“A-Alfred…” The brunette moaned, gasping as he rode Alfred like he was built for it, the ends of his shirt brushing over the planes of Alfred’s stomach as he rocked forward and back, up and down, coaxing Alfred further and further towards the brink until he was shouting out an orgasm, head thrown back and hands bruising Feli’s hips and thighs as the slimmer male screamed and threw his head back with a gasp and a writhing motion.

Four hours later and they were on the plush carpet, Feliciano’s chin propped against Alfred’s chest, tracing his fingers over a new eagle tattoo on his pectoral, the brunette kissing at the black lines as Alfred spoke.

“Satisfied at last?”

“Mhmm…” Feli smirked and gave a soft bite to Alfred’s nipple. “My hero.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoever said that history was uninteresting doesn't hear about this shit.
> 
> Dating a history major has great benefits, and being a huge English major myself both of us have quite a lot of fun coming up with historical references for Hetalia fanfiction. 
> 
> Neither of us can recall what this historical incident was called, but we both agree that about now would be the time where Alfred would develop his "Hero Complex".


	3. Who Loved America The Most

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There was one man, as crazy and paranoid as he was, that Alfred held a great deal of love for. And that was J Edgar Hoover.

J Edgar wasn’t the _most_ attractive man in the world. He had some fat on his face and he was a bit thick in the middle, but he was still good looking. And he had a thing for broad shoulders.

Something that Alfred liked to take advantage of in the slow hours.

Well… Relatively slow, seeing as there was no such thing as off time for J Edgar Hoover. He could respect the stable relationship that the man had with Clyde, he understood it all too well. Because the man _knew_ without having to be told that unlike himself and Clyde, Alfred would never grow old, would never be able to give him what Clyde or a human wife could.

“You’re a cruel master, Alfred F. Jones.” J Edgar murmured as Alfred wrapped his arms around the agent’s waist, holding him close. Alfred had filled out nicely after World War II, gaining more weight in the shoulders and slimming down from the last vestiges of his baby fat. Not many of the other nations had noticed, but humans certainly did.

“You’re the one who boasts the greatest love for America.” Alfred murmured, gathering flaps of the man’s jacket in his hand and tugging on it gently before he pulled a soft kiss from the man’s mouth.

“You’re impossible.”

“You love it.” The older male murmured as he gave a firm squeeze to the shorter, stockier male. “And I would _love_ to take you out to dinner.” The blonde bared his teeth, clean and white and untainted by nicotine, unlike J Edgar’s own, but the taste of some sort of tobacco on his breath was obvious.

“I need to finish work.”

“Ah, I am your work.” Alfred waggled his eyebrows playfully and his hands gave another imploring squeeze. “Come on, go out to dinner with me… Or we could stay in?”

Hoover’s expression was pinched in such a way that if Alfred hadn’t known the man it would have been either terrifying or irritating. “You’re cute when you pout at me like that.”

“I am not. I’m an ornery old man.”

“You’re younger than me, and hence still qualify for cute.”

“That’s _unfai-_ ” The older male dove to cut off the statement with his mouth, pulling a long kiss from thin lips until his lungs burned for air and J Edgar was grasping hold of his biceps and shoulders to try and pull him off. “You cheat.”

“Oh, but you enjoy it.” Alfred grinned and pressed the tip of his nose to the man’s. “Because let’s face it. You love me more than anything.”

“I do,” Came almost immediately and J Edgar murmured as he toyed with the lapels of the larger male’s jacket before he. “America.”

In an hour they were back at the man’s house and Alfred was removing his tie, watching as J Edgar began to cook from his rather limited repertoire.

Alfred himself was able to cook a wider variety, something about so many different cultures mixed into one, but what he could achieve in quantity he sacrificed quality. And honestly, he loved J Edgar’s chicken and potatoes and his green beans were perfectly cooked. He also enjoyed watching the somewhat domestic sight of the other man wandering around in his comfortable sweater vest and slacks, stirring a pot of potatoes and pushing pieces of chicken about in a frying pan as he checked the green beans alongside it.

Alfred lifted a glass of scotch to his lips, one heel tapping against the carpet rapidly to the beat of some tune he couldn’t quite place as he peered over the edge of the glass at the other man, who tilted his head when the sensation of eyes on him became too pressing. Alfred laughed and grinned, lowering the glass from his mouth and tracing his pointer finger around the rim. “You’re so _paranoid_. Or do you just not like me watching?” A flush rose to the man’s cheeks and he stubbornly looked away as Alfred continued. “I like watching you… In a variety of situations… I also like hearing you, smelling you, touching you, f-”

“Finish that statement and I won’t feed you.”

Alfred stood, sauntering over to the turned back and smirking as he leaned over, ghosting his breath over ear and jaw and collar, knowing from the tightened grip on the wooden spoon that he was getting to the man. “I especially like that last one.”

It was so nice when he managed to get the uptight man riled. It was nice to have someone to drop the façade with. He needed J Edgar. He needed to have someone that he could just… _Let go with_. He didn’t have any sort of expectations to hold up, the man felt it was his own duty to keep America safe, to protect him, and he did everything in his power to do so.

It was nice to feel taken care of, babied and pampered in a way different than what England had done. He kissed the shorter male’s neck, reaching up to unbutton the top two buttons of J Edgar’s collar, smiling as he felt the man reach down to turn off the stove. “It’s going to burn.”

“Bite the pillow, then.”

J Edgar elbowed Alfred as the blonde laughed suddenly. “That wasn’t funny, Alfred.”

“It was, admit it.” The older male grinned and dragged his fingers over the smaller male’s waist, a sudden bout of apprehension taking over from his usual boldness. “And, um… I’d like it if you would… You know the dress… And those pearls I bought you.” So shy about his desires but knowing that J Edgar would indulge him regardless. Perhaps that was something that frustrated Clyde about Alfred’s relationship with the man, whereas the other human fought for every inch, Alfred would receive it willingly.

The other man made a noise in the back of his throat before he gave a quiet little nod, his ears tinged red but a small smile threatening his lips. Alfred grinned as he stepped back enough for the man to serve out the food he had made onto a pair of plates, forgoing table settings with the more casual male who disliked helping with dishes.

The dinner was filled with more banter, more flirting, a few more nudges of Alfred’s knee against J Edgar’s and a couple more glasses of scotch in each of them, Alfred barely feeling the effects but his partner quickly becoming buzzed enough to grin and go wrap himself in the desired outfit that Alfred had mentioned.

It was an old fashioned dress, at one point it could have been the height of fashion, and despite having been worn by J Edgar’s mother it was still a rather attractive piece, even on him. The darts in the bust made it sag oddly around the man’s chest but it fit him fine other than that and Alfred didn’t mind.

He particularly didn’t mind the pearls resting on the other man’s collarbone, his head bowing to softly trace his mouth over the line of bone and gems before he nipped at the fluttering jugular and the curve of sharp jaw. His fingers dragged over the man’s thighs, sifting the fabric with the motion and toying with the sway of it, watching the way it fell everytime he lifted and dropped the fabric.

He wished he could say that he didn’t want J Edgar to feel the need to dress like this for him, that he didn’t need to keep things like this around. But despite it all he didn’t feel that way, he couldn’t. He couldn’t bring himself to give up on the skirts and dresses and high heels, even when the women that wore them bored and annoyed him. He liked the firm assuredness of other men, he liked their bodies and their voices, but he couldn’t admit that out loud, could barely admit it in his own mind.

“Alfred…” J Edgar murmured as the blonde’s hand bunched in the skirt, his own fingers, heavy and real and strong as they pried open the grip. “America… It’s okay…”

Usually it was the other way around and America was the one attempting to reassure. But the trembling against the man’s back must have been sign enough that it was his turn to utter the phrase. And Alfred, tall, strong, innovative America, he needed someone to be tall and strong for him, one way or another, and J Edgar was all too ready to please, to fill in the gap.

So when he found himself on his back in his own bed, Alfred leaning over him, holding the man’s waist and the bunched fabric of the dress there, his body burning and soaring with the pleasure that mingled with slight pain, it wasn’t any surprise when Alfred started to sob and cry into his shoulder, clinging as he continued to move.

“Please, don’t leave me… _you can’t die…_ ”

And that was the crux of it.

Because while he would eventually die, would fade in what Alfred perceived as a matter of minutes, Alfred would be left standing before his grave, holding a string of pearls and one particular dress, staring at his name engraved on a tombstone with the date beneath.

And Alfred would live on, and on, and on, watching the people tear at and mock and analyze one of his greatest friends, lovers and protectors.

The one man who loved America the most.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've always thought that the dynamic between America and J Edgar Hoover would have been fascinating to see in the anime, but seeing as there isn't much room for character development in a five minute episode I have to substitute with my own imagination. 
> 
> I made my girlfriend cry with this one. 
> 
> I am not gomen. 
> 
> This could also be seen as a crossover with the movie J Edgar that starred Leonardo DiCaprio, but I'm not tagging it as such because this is only mentioned once.


	4. Do You Love Me, Daddy?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur's punk stage brought up a lot of old feelings for Alfred, except this time he could at least attempt to have them returned.

Alfred always remembered how Arthur had gotten that broken nose of his. Despite the bad memories attached to the event, he could appreciate that it gave him a rather attractive sense of ruggedness that offset his fine suits and comfortable sweater vests. 

But oh, Arthur’s punk stage had definitely been fun and had only added to that attractiveness _(those bottle green eyes suited those thick black eyebrows and the eternally smug tilt of his thin lips could make almost anyone submit to whatever the man desired if he wanted them to)_. 

He loved Arthur’s peircings especially when they had become a huge fad in the sixties and seventies. It was one of the few times that he had actually wanted to submit to the older male, when Arthur had shed propriety and shown a different sort of dominance. 

Alfred swallowed thickly as he felt the perspiration of his beer bite at the skin of his palm with its chill. Arthur was on the hodge-podge stage of some pub’s basement, electric guitar slung against his hips as he played some song by The Damned, green eyes closed and shaggy head tilted back, his thick black eyebrows furrowed and his lip captured between his teeth, his snakebites gleaming as the lights caught the green gems that decorated the studs. His nails were painted black and his leather pants hugged low on his hips, almost indecently so, and his torn union jack shirt occasionally shifted lower than collarbones and Alfred could see his pectorals and the chestpiece across them and beneath the ink the gleam of a pair of nipple rings _(Alfred wanted to drag his tongue over them just to get a reaction out of his mentor)_. 

When the music had finished only to be replaced by more and the screams of the crowd Alfred blinked as he was broken from his trance, attention dragged to the form of Arthur, striding purposefully towards him. The lights danced over his body and his eyes were intense with the thrill of a performance gone well, he was sweating from the heat of the electronics but despite it all he walked with his straight back and an almost military cadence to his steps. The former Empire could puncture himself, ink himself, and dress himself in any way and it would still be obvious that he could still command a room. 

“In the back.” Arthur sounded slightly breathless and Alfred would have had to be blind to not know how his father-figure felt or what he wanted _(his arousal pressed to the front of his zipper and the lighting did nothing to hide it)_. 

Which was probably why, minutes later, Alfred was bobbing his head, mouth wrapped around the older male, with thing fingers grasping his hair tightly and setting the pace for the movements. The blue-eyed nation stared up at Arthur, the former Empire groaning as he thrust into Alfred’s mouth, gagging him slightly on occasion, but being careful to not cause damage with the frenulum bar that rested just beneath his head. Alfred pulled back briefly to press a kiss to the head, sucking like a kitten might for milk, blue eyes peering at the flush on Arthur's cheeks as his tongue lapped out at the warm metal barbell beneath the head, earning a particularly loud groan and a tightening grip in his hair _(Arthur used to grip his hair like that when he was in trouble, drag him through the halls and into the kitchen to grab a wooden spoon and wallop him on the rear)_.

“You like that? You like having cock in your mouth?” The thick accent was lowered and abrasive and Alfred shivered, feeling heat pool in his lap as he stared up at his mentor with wide eyes, giving a particularly firm suck to earn another loud groan from the man. “Fuck, Alfred…” Arthur licked at his lips and Alfred whined at the glint of a tongue piercing, his hand moving to his own pants and unzipping his jeans, hand diving down as blue eyes stared and watched _(his mouth slid down over the throbbing length again and Alfred could feel the older male tremble with the need to come and hoping that he would, he could swallow down the approval)_. Arthur tightened his grip on Alfred’s hair after a few more minutes, pulling back and shoving Alfred onto the floor, working at the jeans as he leaned forward. “You like having someone up your ass as much as you like having someone in your mouth?”

Alfred whined and nodded, spreading his legs and lifting his hips as Arthur tugged his pants down, the fabric catching at his knees and the older blonde not having the patience to work them off over his knees. “A-arthur…” Alfred whined and there was a slap on his thigh that had him yelping before he moaned and rolled onto his elbows and knees. 

“Such a nice little slut.” Arthur purred and Alfred gasped and whined as spit slicked fingers forced themselves into him _(rough and without finesse but still oh-so-good)_. He wasn’t used to this, and that wouldn’t be nearly enough lubricant, but he couldn’t find it in himself to care as Arthur positioned himself behind his old colony. “What do we say?”

It was mocking and it stung because it was the same patronizing tone that Arthur had used when Alfred was little and wanted a biscuit or a cake. But the ingrained reaction was there and without realization the younger blonde opened his mouth and let out a weak little, “Please, Daddy.” He felt Arthur freeze before a shudder of pleasure wracked the older male’s body. 

“Well, isn’t that precious…” Arthur’s eyes flared and Alfred could feel the intense green stare on his shoulders as Arthur gently trailed his fingers over the larger male’s hips and rear _(goosebumps raised and shivers wracked Alfred's body at the feeling of nails on his skin)_. “You want daddy’s cock?”

Alfred nodded despite how much the affirmation tore at his throat and chest with the force of a sob. “I want it… Please, please, Daddy…”

Arthur groaned and pressed the head of his length to the younger male’s entrance, Alfred gasping and rocking back instinctively as Arthur pressed inside slowly, the tug and pop of head and frenulum bar causing Alfred to let out a brief cry as he arched and trembled _(he was used to pain but it still hurt to be so intimately torn at)_. “Oh, poor baby… Do you want me to pull out?” Arthur attempted to pull back and Alfred let out a cry of protest, shaking his head and rocking his hips back. He wanted this, he wanted this brief moment of approval, however he could get it. “Good boy…” Arthur groaned and thrust forward, burying himself to the hilt and earning a sob of pleasure and pain from his ex-colony. 

“I-I love you, Daddy.” Alfred whimpered, thrusting back and meeting the motions as he pressed his cheek to the rough carpet of the floor, despite the fact that he might rub his face raw with the way Arthur was thrusting into him.

“I love you, too, Alfred.” Arthur groaned and gasped, thrusting forward and grasping Alfred’s broad hips hard enough that there would be crescent marks of his nails in the tanned skin. “Daddy loves you…”

Alfred gasped and his length twitched at those words, the aching arousal throbbing with each pound and each murmured reassurance of how Daddy was proud, he was happy, he loved him. When Arthur finally found his prostate and murmured a low “I’m so proud of you, Alfred” the younger blonde cried out and arched, the burning hot of his arousal compacting and leaking from him as Arthur continued to thrust _(angling to rub against that one spot with each motion)_ , green eyes watching greedily as the white fluid leaked between Alfred’s legs slowly without any prompting from hands. “Such a good boy.”

Arthur lasted a few more minutes before he came, filling Alfred and causing the hypersensitive blonde to shiver as the length of flesh was pulled out, the older male dragging his hands over his length before wiping excess semen on his fingers onto Alfred’s back, staining the fabric and making it obvious just what Alfred had been doing, even as the thick fluid dribbled from Alfred’s hole and down his thigh and along his perineum _(like a used whore but he couldn't care about that, not when he had Arthur's approval if for a few minutes)_. Arthur stood and the jingle of his belt being done up again was loud in Alfred’s ears as he peered at the older male walking out of the room before he slumped against the floor, legs giving out finally as he panted and sobbed softly. 

It was a few minutes before Alfred could stand, pulling up his pants with a whine and a groan, walking out of the pub and down the street to his hotel, not bothering to give anyone a second glance as he went to his room and slumped against the closed door for a few moments. 

He ached, his chest was clenched and his throat was trembling as he resisted the urge to sob and scream as he closed his eyes and tried to keep the tears at bay.   
If this was the only way he could get Arthur’s approval… He’d take that over nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So if you were expecting "kawaii desu desu uke Arthur" then I apologize. 
> 
> But seriously? England was a fucking Empire. Most of the world belonged to England at some point. England also had one of the most historic musical revelations in the 1900's when the punk era came to being. If you think that Arthur would be a submissive little sex kitten then think about those two facts alone.


End file.
